Sometimes and Maybe
by BetweenLines55
Summary: All Arthur wanted was a quiet, well deserved day off. It's not going to happen though, if Mycroft and London's crime scene have anything to do with if. One phone call in a record shop later and Arthur may never get another day off again. T for language and sassy Arthur, may or may not be continued.


**Hey guys, I'm not dead! I know it's been a while since I posted something, but here ya go. In truth, I have literally no idea if this is going to be continued for now, it's just a one-shot ATM, but if you guys want more, you have to tell me **

Tucked away in a record store in the corner, a nook really, of East Sussex, Arthur Kirkland thought he would've been safe. It was a frayed, indie sort of place where the girls behind the counter had infinity signs tattooed on their wrists and all the men working the stock rooms in the back of the store wore their trousers too low and didn't shave for several consecutive days. There was no wallpaper, just exposed brick, some of it painted and some of it not. Pictures didn't hang on the wall, concert posters did. Instead of curtains and a solid door to the back room, there were strings of beads. Paper lanterns were strung around in awkward places, bring a warm, cozy light different to the grainy, dull sort that came about London.

It was not a place that well-dressed government types would, or more likely _should_, not know about.

But he had been wrong before. Many times. Francis liked ever so much to remind him of those occasions. He was positive that somewhere the frog had a calendar dedicated to and called as much, "England's Famous Fuck-Ups."

Despite his lengthy precaution measures. He had a feeling it wouldn't save him in the end. His favorite pair of ripped, red denims, the very tatty and _very_ beloved Deathly Hallows t-shirt and his Doc Martens would all be in vain. Stabbing his eyebrow bar back into place and dipping into his vast collection of beanies wasn't going to matter in the end.

Even regarding his pessimism, or _realism_ as Arthur preferred, nothing had come up that overly put him on edge. When he'd walked in, the pretty girl behind the counter with the electric blue bob and spider bites had only briefly given him a look from over the top of her book (feminism or something, Arthur noticed) before going back to reading.

He savored these days off, few and far between, that he spent in the back of record stores and shopping in the London boutiques and looking out over the Thames wrapped up in his RAF pilot jacket and silk scarf his dear Kiku had given him a hundred years ago. Honest to God, he loved his work, his country, his people and his sweater vests (all 17 of them). All though, he could do without all the pompous arseholes and the piles of paper work. For God's sake, he'd been off since Friday afternoon and his hand was still cramping.

Finally making it to the back of the store, Arthur got there without much damage. Only a flirty smack on the backside by a man in a v-neck. Honestly, who other than the frog wore_ v-necks_ anymore?

The back smelled like cigarettes (despite the no smoking sign on the front entrance) barely masked with incense that took him back to the days of Beatlemania shortly followed by Freddie Mercury and waiting for the hammer to fall. Deft fingers flipped through the stacks, smiling occasionally at the record jackets. At home he already had a sizable collection. Most of them brought up memories Arthur would have otherwise forgotten, buried in the back of his mind in his mental library of a thousand years or so. Damn, he needed to call up Gil and go back to traveling the bar circuit—

The tinny, sharp sound of his cell phone playing "Anarchy in the UK" echoed up from his jacket pocket. There was only one man in Arthur's phone that had that ringtone and damn it all if that man was going to drag him back behind a desk.

"What the hell do ya want, Mycroft?" Arthur said, not bothering with the crusty old accent he cared to put on for all the politicians. Mycroft didn't care, as long as what he wanted as achieved in the end. A horrible person, with too large a forehead for his face, Mycroft Holmes, but a respectable one Arthur managed to put up with. (And only partially because Mycroft practically ran most of his government, the git.)

Luckily, Arthur seemed to be alone in the back. No one was watching and V-neck had thankfully disappeared. "Ah, hello to you too, Arthur. Enjoying your day off?"

"I was. 'Til you called anyways."

"Personable as ever, aren't we."

"Get to the point, wanker. I have roughly 18 hours until I'm back behind a desk and I'd like to enjoy them without you blustering into my life, thanks very much."

Static on the other end. A sigh. "Very well. Are you alone?"

Arthur snuck a peek to the front, "As good as."

"There have been several government officials found murdered, their bodies dumped in the Thames. Several government workers with Level 10 clearance."

"Shite."

Level 10 clearance meant Arthur Kirkland, lifelong Londoner, part time guitarist and full time cat owner was actually England, occasionally Britain, lifelong war veteran, part time father and full time world power.

Double shite.

"You suspect I know something about this? Because if you are, you're wrong." Arthur grumbled. He didn't know why Mycroft thought he knew everything that went on within his heart and home, within the country. Vaguely, Arthur could remember a time in which he did, when London wasn't so big and the country as a whole was less populated. Simpler times, those. Occasionally, like now, he longed for those simpler times.

"No, I wouldn't expect you to." Mycroft said. Arthur curled his lip—so he was in one of his moods today, wasn't he?

"Did you call me just to give me sass or were you actually going to tell me something, especially if _Level 10 security's been breached?_" Arthur replied in the same nasty tone of voice. He knew he was a right pain in the arse to Mycroft, but took pride in it, because damn if that insufferable man didn't need a reality check every now and then.

Another sigh on the other end of the line, "Look, Arthur. I'm calling to tell you that I've gotten permission from David Cameron and the Queen to involve my brother in this...scandal."

"Homicide."

"What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Mycroft, I am more than a thousand years old, do _not_ coddle me. It's a homicide, call it what it is. As for your brother...the sociopath, correct?"

"_High-functioning_ sociopath, but yes...Sherlock. And his partner, Dr. John Watson."

"Partner, eh?" Arthur said, moving to cradle the phone between his ear and shoulder, feigning casualty by looking through albums as the blue haired girl from the counter shuffled passed him and disappeared into the stockroom with the tinkling sound of stringed beads. Grabbing his phone again and taking a quick look around, he slipped out the back door into the alley behind the record store.

Mycroft was speaking again, "Purely professional, at this point." Humor. Weird sound for Mycroft—it made Arthur uneasy. "So you've got money on them. All right, well, whatever. Just keep me posted. I heard Sherlock Holmes is the best in this business."

"I assure you, he is." Mycroft said, sounding final. The alley next to the record store was a tight squeeze for even someone as lean and wiry as Arthur. Barely managing to get to the front of the building, he stopped short. A black car parked on the curb.

"Hullo." Arthur said.

"Yes, I may have forgotten to mention that I was parked outside."

"I thought you didn't venture out into East Sussex...and you never forget anything, bastard."

"Yes, shame, you'll have to find a new hidey-hole. Get in the car, Arthur. We've more to talk about than one phone call can manage."

"Fuck."

The anthropomorphic personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland numbly hit the end call button and slipped the phone into his back pocket. If Mycroft was making a personal call, and Level 10 security had been breached...shit, he wasn't getting away from this one.

Arthur wordlessly opened the car door and slid in. One of those limo style cars the man loved so much. He looked as posh as ever, Mycroft, his suit expertly tailored and shoes shining even in the dim light coming in through the tinted windows. And there Arthur was, with a fucking piece of metal above his eyebrow.

"Personable as ever." Mycroft said, hint of a smile on his smug face. "Oh, belt up," Arthur growled, "Where are you bloody taking me, anyways?"

"221b Baker Street," said the man who ran most of his government, a look on his face reminding Arthur of a predator leading its prey to its doom, "and I suggest you take the lovely piece of metal out of your face before we get there."

Arthur flipped Mycroft off, then collapsed into the upholstery. He really wasn't getting another day off anytime soon, was he?

**I'm pretty sure this is insanely out of character for both Arthur and Mycroft, but in my head, Artie is a no-nonsense, witty, sarcastic guy who really likes rock music and piercings and tattoos but keeps it to himself for sake of keeping up appearances. **

**Also, the bit about Gilbert and the bar scene-again, headcannon where Gil and Arthur are total rock-music buddies. (I mean, German rock is some hard-core shit.) Gil, at least for me, is a bassist. **

**Hope you guys liked it, reviews are love and feed my lonely inbox! Tell me what you think and if you want MOAR.**


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